Larque on the Wing

by Nancy Springer

  On those rare occasions when she emerged from her studio and went into town, Larque didn’t usually walk—some of the streets between hers and the Riverside were dangerous.

  To hell with danger.

  On impulse, or maybe instinct, Larque turned onto a street she’d never walked before, a place where narrow row houses were crowded like Sky’s teeth and where people escaping the narrow indoors sat out on their front steps even on the coldest days of the year. This wasn’t a balmy day, but not cold either. Just fresh, whispering of warmth to come, of bare-chested boys and young love. Ah, April, the cruelest month for people who were past forty or paying self-employment income tax.

  Larque walked up to the first stoop-sitter, a stout housedressed woman with her nylons down around her ankles, and asked, “Have you seen a funny-looking little girl? Maybe yesterday, maybe the day before?”

  The woman peered at her out of eyes that were creases riding on heavy cheeks.

  “Skinny,” Larque elaborated. “In a skirt and blouse like they used to make us wear in the fifties.” The white cotton blouse and overfull skirt, like the sensible shoes, had been bought large for grow room and made Sky look tiny and twiggy inside them, a mayfly dwarfed by her own wings. “Straight hair cut short. Scabby knees. You seen her?”

  “Don’t you have a photo or nothing?” the woman complained.

  “No. She might have been looking for a cowboy. Anybody dress like a cowboy around here?”

  “That guy on Popular Street.”

  Larque had never heard of Popular Street. “Where is it?”

  “A ways from here.”

  “Which way?”

  “Any which way.” But the woman pointed toward the west. Larque walked on. Black children playing on the sidewalk giggled and ran from her to hang on to parental legs. The people atop the legs had not seen any funny-looking little girl.

  “Can you tell me how to get to Popular Street?”

  “No ma’am. Never heard of it.”

  She went on, asking sometimes for the skinny child in the out-of-date clothes, sometimes for the cowboy. More and more she sensed, and felt with a queasiness in her chest, that a part of her was gone as surely as if she had lost a leg or a breast. Everything about this part of town was new to her, yet her eyes were not taking in the details of dormers and breezeway gates, broken shingles and the look of graffiti on brickwork. Her mind was not recording the slant of the morning light on disjointed concrete. The camera wasn’t working.

  God. She’d forgotten. When she was Sky, she used to pretend there was a camera built in behind her eyes, catching everything she saw on film so that someday she would be able to make people understand important things: how a penny can be pounded thin and made into a dime for the soda machine, the way cats pant during the dog days, how black telephone wires swooping up toward the sky shine white.

  “Have you seen a funny-looking little girl?”

  Leaning in her doorway, which was probably the entry to her place of business, a miniskirted bimbo in fishnet stockings laughed in Larque’s face and wouldn’t answer her questions. Half a block later, an old man with a garbage bag full of aluminum cans told her, “Ask around on Popular Street.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I ain’t exactly sure. Somewheres around here.”

  She found herself more and more keeping her eyes on the ground, walking slowly. Her feet hurt unbelievably. If she could just find a truthteller, she could ask him the way. She remembered about truthtellers now, too. They were people sometimes, animals sometimes, but if they were people, they had to carry something in their hands like an offering. Animals too, for that matter. She used to draw pictures of people and animals on their hind legs, swarms of them around a big rock like a monolith. The ones carrying something in their outstretched paws were truthtellers. The others were not. Truthtellers spoke only to truthtellers. Or if they spoke to someone who was not a truthteller, then that person would be changed.

  She began to look for something to carry in her hand so that the truthteller would know her when he saw her.

  It had to be something a little special. A good, shapely piece of stick, or something shiny from a gutter, though not just a dirty piece of gum wrapper. It had been quite a while since she had wanted to talk to a truthteller or had gone hunting for Popular Street or looked for anything in a gutter. It felt good to get back to the real business of life.

  For no reason at all she found herself singing—out loud, on the street—a stupid song she had not thought about in years, a cowboy song she had learned as a kid.

  “Gypsy Davy roams the range

  Playing on his big guitar.

  Gypsy Davy camps in a canyon,

  Gypsy Davy sings to a star,

  And all the rancher’s daughters

  Look out the window and sigh,

  Hello, Gypsy Davy.

  They told me a gypsy would lie.”

  Larque saw it.

  In the gray street grit, a spark of silver.

  She picked it up. It was a tiny metal star, not flat but three-dee like the five-pointed stars kids folded out of paper around Christmastime, and she knew at once exactly where it had come from: the silver-clad toe of a cowboy’s boot. She knew because her own left boot was missing one just like it, a silver star lost years before in a college town miles away.

  Crouching, she tried this star in the vacant place on her boot to see if it would snap in place. Not quite. A little too big.

  She held the shiny thing in her hand and looked up and saw the corner sign for Popular Street.

  Only one block long, it was a street of small shops with their faces painted electric pink and neon lavender, apartments overhead with pink or Day-Glo yellow flower boxes in the windows, awnings striped orange and fuchsia with rainbow wind socks and balloons hanging over the sidewalk. Not at all the usual discreet Soudersburg street. Even the sidewalk was bright: pink brick.

  In fact it was not like any street of shops Larque had ever seen anywhere. The wares displayed in its street-side windows were different. Definitely not meant for the sort of tourists who came to Riverside. Automatically Larque noticed this, but at the moment shopping was not her top priority. Sky was. She stood at the end of the street and scanned it, looking for the doppelganger—Popular Street did indeed seem popular, crowded with handsome people in bright new clothes; why had she never heard of it before? Maybe she was not handsome enough, her body not sufficiently toned, her clothes not classy enough.

  She did not see Sky. But this did look like a place a kid was likely to come. Almost like a carnival. Larque walked slowly up the middle of the street—there were no cars on it—and read the shop signs. The Lace Place, which sold very interesting lingerie. A rock shop, and next to it the Rock Shop, which dealt in what must have been fake gems; they looked fit for royalty. Then, Fantasy Outfitters, with appropriately clothed mannequins in the window. On the other side of the street, some place called Beauty and the Beast, which in the context of this place sounded kinky but smelled reassuringly of perm. The Tie and Dye. Many shops. Across from them, Araby, which was not open, being a nightclub. The Leather Look, featuring strappy fashions Larque could not quite figure out—what went where? The possibilities were highly intriguing—but maybe only because of the way her dirty mind worked.

  Maybe not. Next was the Toy Shop, which did not appear to be meant for children. Would Sky be in there?

  Whoa. Tush alert.

  On the street ahead of Larque, a slim male butt drew her full attention. Tight black jeans. Broad shoulders in a black Western-cut shirt. Black hat, long black hair. Wonderful catlike walk. An attractive package altogether; her crotch signaled approval. The boots were snub-toe black Dingoes. The hat was not a cowboy hat, but close enough, being of the flat laced-together Spanish-cut leather style a desperado might wear. Was this the Popular Street cowboy?

  Larque forgot about the toy shop and followed the jeans, the boots, the hat.

  This cowboy was not ver
y tall, but who cared: he had a perfectly proportioned ass on him. Whoever he was, he strode magnificently into the last shop on the far corner—this had to be it, a place called the Bareback Rider. Western fashions—soft, expensive denim, miles of fringe—in the oriel showcase. The door stood open.

  Larque went in, then stopped to stare uncouthly.

  Coming out from behind the counter was a tall man with a youthful, beautiful, flower-smooth face but hair the color of platinum. Turquoise blue eyes. White silver-studded Western shirt, silver-and-turquoise Navaho slide on his string tie. Pearl gray jeans. Pearl gray snakeskin Tony Lama boots. His hat, the color of a calla lily, sat on the counter, balanced on its crown so as not to ruin the curl of the brim. He had to be the great white god of all cowboys.

  For some reason he seemed taken aback to see her there in his shop. He and the black-hat magnificent-ass man stood side by side staring at her.

  Or maybe it was just that she was staring at them. It took her a moment, but eventually she remembered why she was there. “’Scuse me,” she said, “have either of you seen a funny-looking little runaway girl? Me. Only a lot younger and skinnier.”

  The one in white opened his soft-lipped mouth soundlessly but just looked at her. The one in black said, “I’d try up the street a ways. Just keep looking.”

  His face was handsome and serious. His voice was low, with a soft burr in it, twilight-colored but somehow immensely reassuring. Larque felt blessed. “Thank you,” she whispered, and she rushed out, crossing to the opposite corner. Magic Makeover, that wasn’t a place Sky would go into. The New You Tattoo. Something called the Cop Shop, and something called Superheroes—Sky was not in there either. Larque worked her way clear to the end. A candy store with lottery machine, a comic book store, the Penis Place—

  Maybe it wasn’t so important to find the funny-looking girl in ugly clothes after all, because in a way Larque was finding Sky all the time. For instance, she remembered: the kid had always been really curious about penises. Never had much opportunity to see any.

  Nor did Larque the grownup, for that matter. For twenty years she had been faithful to Hoot. And, she felt certain, he to her. And he didn’t bring home Bimbos In The Buff magazine. So she didn’t bring home Raw Richard.

  But today was different somehow. The door stood wide open. There was nobody inside to embarrass Larque by watching her look. And what the hell did it matter anyway if somebody saw her in there? Nobody knew her here. Larque went in.

  “Can you imagine working in a dildo factory?” she asked Hoot at suppertime.

  “Mom,” Jeremy protested.

  “Christ, woman.” Hunched protectively over his plate as if somebody might grab his food, Hoot kept eating. When he was finished he would peer at the kids’ plates to see if he could grab anything of theirs. He claimed he had never lacked for sustenance as a child, but Larque wondered.

  Actually, a dildo factory was not conceptually too far removed from his present place of employment—right now he was troubleshooting for a woman who was starting up a string of beefcake nightclubs. Nor did Larque want him to get the idea of changing jobs again, which he did frequently, whenever he got bored. She amplified, “I don’t mean you. I mean, can you imagine being a woman working in one of those places? Surrounded by the things all day?”

  “What’s a dildo?” Rodd wanted to know.

  Jason was snickering too hard to tell him. Larque explained, “A plastic penis. Like, for fun and games. Battery-operated. Light-up. Can you imagine? There’s got to be a factory someplace that makes those things. I wonder if there’s one around here.”

  “Looking for a new job, Mom?” Jason teased.

  Larque made a face at him. She had come home without Sky, but knew that the next morning she would either have to face the blank paper on her easel again, or do just what Jason said, or find the girl.

  “What would you apply for?” Jason persisted. “Quality control, so you could inspect each and every one?”

  “Forget it,” Hoot spoke up unexpectedly. “Those suckers spoil you for the real thing.”

  “Oooh! Dad,” Jason teased, “jealous of those teninchers?”

  “Speak for yourself, son.”

  Larque grinned. Hoot really was a smart man, always had been, despite his grunting Dutch ways.

  Rodd belched.

  “Excuse me.” To escape the usual postdinner sound effects emanating from her four family males, Larque went upstairs, where she sat idly in her studio, letting Hoot take care of cleanup even though she knew he never remembered to wipe the countertops. In bed that night, lightly sleeping, she dreamed vivid, yearning dreams she could not remember in the morning.

  Over lunch hour Hoot walked to Farmers’ Market with the intention of getting some sort of little gift for Larque, if he could find something that felt right. Certainly not a dildo, no matter how much she joked. And not flowers or anything mushy like that. There were limits. But within those limits, Hoot had a feeling his wife needed something. He could tell she was going through a rough patch right now. Not that this can’t-paint thing worried him; he didn’t understand it, but he knew Larque would get her act together soon. He had faith in her, and she had never let him down yet. She just needed to have more faith in herself.

  Her latest doppelganger did not bother him either, no matter how mouthy it was. He guessed most people would think a wife who doppelgangered things was pretty weird, which was why he didn’t talk about it, but personally he figured, what was the harm? Who had she ever hurt? Everybody is entitled to a hobby. Larque had been doppelgangering since he had known her, and he had married her realizing he was in for some strange times. If you’re going to fall for somebody, you have to love her the way she is.

  No, what worried him and sent him across Soudersburg to Farmers’ Market was the way she had dressed yesterday. It didn’t matter to him what she wore; she could go around in burlap and he would still think she was damn good-looking, because she was. What bothered him was, whenever a woman changed the way she dressed so much so abruptly, it was a sure sign of heavy weather ahead.

  Anyway, he always liked having an excuse to visit Farmers’ Market. Loved the place. Ah, the aromas. He could whiff them now, still a block away, the warm moist siren smells of chicken corn soup, pot pie, hot pretzels, cheese bread.

  He hurried up the brick sidewalk and pushed his way into the heavenly scented echoing brick building. Crowded. Always, on market day. People knew a good thing. Rows and rows of stalls—cut flowers, little wicker baskets, pecan pie, lemon meringue pie, dollhouse furniture, hot German potato salad with bacon dressing, quilted pillows, deer bologna, sweet Lebanon bologna, fresh-baked poppy seed rolls, pickled eggs, spiced apple rings—

  Hoot noticed the italics in his head and decided to get himself something to eat. Maybe then he would be able to concentrate on buying a gift for Larque.

  “Yo, Hootenanny!” The guy at the crab cake stand knew him.

  “Hey, Schrummy, wie geht es?”

  “Gut, es geht gut.”

  Strange, Hoot thought as he spread spicy brown mustard on two large crab cakes, he wasn’t originally from Soudersburg, but because he was Deutsch he felt one hundred percent at home here, like he’d lived here all his life. Larque, though—she really had lived here most of her life, yet because she had that damn Irish mysticism in her, she always seemed to feel like she came from someplace else.

  He bought himself some vinegar fries and a slice of shoofly pie to go with his crab cakes, then headed up some open metal stairs to where there was a sort of loft with a few card tables and folding chairs. With an instinct born of watching lots of John Wayne as a kid, Hoot positioned himself with his back against a wall to eat.

  Yum. Hoot pitied anybody who had never eaten real crab cakes.

  “I mean, to me it explains everything, do you know what I mean?” A woman’s bright-colored voice floated to Hoot from somewhere nearby. “I mean, for instance, this chronic pain in my bladder, the doctors
can’t explain it, but reincarnation does, you know? All it means is something traumatic happened there in a previous life, like I died of urinary rupture or something.”

  Hoot’s businesslike mastication missed a beat, and his eyes winced. He didn’t have to look to know: it was Larque’s inane friend Doris, the professional neurotic, the one for whom blond jokes had been created. He couldn’t mistake her voice. It always made him think of bubble gum. In her case, Tutti Frutti.

  “Like, maybe in childbirth. Or, I was a lady’s maid at some kind of important court function and I couldn’t leave to go to the bathroom, you know what I mean? I’m almost sure that’s what actually happened. Sometimes when I’m dreaming I almost remember.”

  Hoot kept his head down and ate faster. Doris was around the corner from him, talking to somebody over her own lunch, probably. Maybe she wouldn’t see him. If she did, he would smile and say hi, but he’d rather not have to talk with her. Not that he didn’t like Doris—he just couldn’t deal with her. Even blond jokes failed adequately to define the otherworldly quality of her ditziness. Hoot had never been able to understand how or why a nice woman like Larque collected such bizarre friends.

  “Or maybe it’s an omen of how I’m going to die.”

  Doris’s companion said, “Ewwwww!” It was the first thing she had said loud enough for Hoot to hear. She must have been a soft-spoken woman. Doris, though, came through like a tin whistle.

  “I don’t believe that, not really. I don’t believe we can know the future. Reincarnation makes sense, though,” she held forth. “Like, take an artist, like Larque, you know her, Larque Harootunian?” Speak of angels. “I swear, she has such talent, she must have been a great painter in a previous life. Like, Van Gogh or somebody, you know? No, not Van Gogh, he’s the one who cut off his ear. But somebody. Rembrandt, or, uh, what’s his name, Rubens. Isn’t that who I mean? The guy who painted cows?”